


Show me Eternity, and I will show you Memory

by diadema



Series: Forever is composed of Nows [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: 30 Days of Writing, Character Study, Flash Fiction, Inspired by Poetry, Multi, POV Multiple, Prompt Fill, Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-01-28 06:40:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 12,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12600556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diadema/pseuds/diadema
Summary: NaNoWriMo this is not. 30 Days of Flash Fiction inspired by Emily Dickinson poems. :)Less is more. More or less.





	1. A Death blow is a Life blow to Some

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaby receives a bit of news and comes to a cross-roads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Best of luck to all you NaNoWriMo writers out there! 
> 
> Brevity being the soul of wit and all that, I'm using "flash fiction" rather generously. Between dribbles, drabbles, micro-fiction, and twitterature, it's just easier to use one umbrella term! Each chapter gets its inspiration from the title/first line of an Emily Dickinson poem and will be under 1000 words (though most will be considerably shorter).
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Comments are always appreciated. :)

It begins and ends with the Englishman.

Two years ago, at an East German chop shop: he brought her father back to life. Today, on the aircraft carrier, it is fitting he bury him.

Not with dirt, but words.

Condolences like closing caskets.

“A death blow is a life blow to some,” he tells her. Calculated, but not callous. An invitation. Gaby has no family, no home, no country. She is a clean slate, ideal for this line of work.

The house in the suburbs, the car, the dog—all meaningless now without her father. No need to chase the _what ifs_ , the _what could have been’s._

The mission is finished. She gets to decide if she is too.

It begins again with the Russian: sincerity that stings and soothes, eyes honest with recognition. An intimate moment, an intimate pain, an infinity between them.

“I lost him a long time ago.”

Is it irony or justice that she’s gained her life in exchange?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "A Death blow is a Life blow to Some  
> Who till they died, did not alive become—  
> Who had they lived, had died but when  
> They died, Vitality begun."
> 
> Up next: "A faded Boy—in sallow Clothes"


	2. A faded Boy—in sallow Clothes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaby discovers a photo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have clarified before that I am not basing these chapters on the actual poems themselves (just using the first line as a springboard for inspiration). I'll still post the text in the end notes—which, funny enough, is usually the first time I'll actually be reading them. :)
> 
> Thank you all again. Your comments keep me going, so please don't be shy!

Her breath catches when she sees him.

A faded boy in sallow clothes, steeped in shame and sepia-toned sorrows. His eyes: older than they’ve the right to be in so young a face.

 _The point of no return_ , she thinks.

A relic in her shaking hands.

For this is the moment he shook hands with the hangman, secured himself a rope necklace and a tight leash. The moment a boy traded his childhood to prove himself a man.

She could not save him. She will save the memory. Liberate it from red ink and unquestionable orders. The merciless masters. The ends to his means.

Men who weaponized brokenness, programmed a single directive.

_Obey, obey, obey._

But the man is no machine and those same eyes bear witness to a soul incorruptible. Naivety is dead, but the innocence is dormant.

The lost child: a refugee in his own mind.

He comes out of hiding in rarified moments. The _life that was_ gracing the _life that could be_.

 _Can_ be.

But her heart still grieves for the time when he was not yet a faded boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "A faded Boy — in sallow Clothes  
> Who drove a lonesome Cow  
> To pastures of Oblivion —  
> A statesman's Embryo —
> 
> The Boys that whistled are extinct —  
> The Cows that fed and thanked  
> Remanded to a Ballad's Barn  
> Or Clover's Retrospect —"
> 
> Up next: "A Word dropped careless on a Page"


	3. A Word dropped careless on a Page

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought I'd change things up a bit. :) Thanks for reading!

The door clicks shut and the lights switch on.

Gaby kicks off her heels, smirks as they ricochet off the wall. She rubs her aching feet and leaves the landmine of patent leather behind.

Illya can scold her about it later.

A note awaits her in the kitchen—the message terse, the penmanship impeccable. And all in code, of course.

_Out for a walk to buy groceries._

_Be home soon. Dinner at 8._

She reads it again, parsing his words quickly. “Out for a walk.” She nods. _Good._ He’s still in the city. _Jog_ meant country, _run_ that he was abroad, and _running errands_? KGB mission.

She’d rather not think about that last one.

Gaby frowns at the other half of the line. If Illya had a mission, he was supposed to say he’d gone to the _market_ , or, failing that, clued her in to the nature of his assignment.

Sundry items like milk, bread, and eggs each had their espionage counterpart. It wasn’t like the Russian to be so… so…

 _Unlike himself_.

Her consternation triples with the next sentence. _Home_. Illya always wrote _back_ instead. _Be back soon_. And yet, there it was, this interloper: a word dropped careless on a page. An oversight so out of character that her chest tightens and worry shivers down her spine.

She shakes her head.

Gaby considers this place her _home_ in tentative, practical terms only. She doesn’t fool herself that Illya ever could see it as such either. This isn’t Russia. It’s not even his own apartment.

This is a modest flat—her flat—in East London. _A_ temporary _arrangement_ , they’d agreed.

That was six months ago.

Gaby reads the final sentence, not bothering to look at the clock. _Eight_ wasn’t a time. It was a location. She racks her brains frantically. _Eight_ , she repeats to herself. She would have to meet him at _eight_.

But where or _what_ was it?

Solo would know, but she dreads the idea of calling him. Of being subjected to his teasing and patronizing lectures on the importance of—

A key rasps quietly in the lock.

Gaby freezes. Her eyes dart to the block of knives behind her as the door slowly, painstakingly begins to open. She grabs the largest blade and moves into position.

The intruder’s steps are lighter than she would expect… until he trips over her shoes. She listens to the louder, uneven footfalls. The low curse that accompanies them.

Gaby holds her breath, grips the lacquered handle tighter. He should be rounding the corner in _three… two…_

_One._

Gaby steps straight into the intruder’s path. He stumbles back, the tip of her knife pressed to his throat. Brown-bagged groceries scatter across the floor.

An exasperated sigh.

“Honey,” Illya deadpans, “I’m home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "A Word dropped careless on a Page  
> May stimulate an eye  
> When folded in perpetual seam  
> The Wrinkled Maker lie
> 
> Infection in the sentence breeds  
> We may inhale Despair  
> At distances of Centuries  
> From the Malaria - "
> 
> Up next: "Although I put away his life"


	4. Although I put away his life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaby finds the light at the end of the tunnel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one goes out to Somedeepmystery! She's been such a gift to this fandom and inspired this chapter directly. <3
> 
> Thank you all for reading and for the lovely comments! :)

_Although I put away his life, this is not the end._

She chants it to herself, a mantra to keep the earth spinning. She reminds herself that life still goes on and she must along with it.

Favors were cashed in, strings were pulled, every lead exhausted. They were still no closer to finding him than they were six months ago.

Reality encroaches on her, relentless.

 _Isn’t it time_ , Waverly delicately, deliberately asked her, _to consider a_ different _possibility about that night?_ _MIA might well and truly be KIA..._

She nodded, insisted she be the one to clear out his desk. After all, she has the greatest claim on Illya’s few personal effects. Neither she nor Solo could stand the thought of a stranger rifling through the Russian’s belongings, unmoved and uncautious as they shunted them off to storage.

Gaby bequeaths the fountain pens, the airport-purchased paperbacks, and the portable chess set to the American, keeping only a mug and his notebooks for herself.

They move on to his apartment next.

After six months of covering his rent, Solo and Waverly had decided to let the lease expire. She and the American make quick work of the place.

She has to steel herself to see his life packed away into boxes—these miniature coffins, gravestones in a tenement cemetery. She breathes deeply.

A warm hand on her shoulder, a bracing smile.

An understanding.

Tomorrow, Illya Kuryakin will be declared Killed in Action. UNCLE will cease chasing ghosts and her Russian will finally be allowed to die.

In three months, the KGB will call off the official search for him. The unofficial one will close with their investigation at least six months after.

And _then_ , at some unexpected hour, maybe a year or two later, her fiancé will come home to her. Solo will have slipped the CIA’s collar and Waverly honorably discharged her from service.

The black pearl ring shines like a promise, his father’s watch ticks like a heartbeat on her wrist. A secret wedding, a new identity, an unextraordinary world before them.

 _Although I put away his life_ , she reminds herself with a secret smile to Solo, _this is not the end._

This is only the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Although I put away his life —  
> An Ornament too grand  
> For Forehead low as mine, to wear,  
> This might have been the Hand
> 
> That sowed the flower, he preferred —  
> Or smoothed a homely pain,  
> Or pushed the pebble from his path —  
> Or played his chosen tune —
> 
> On Lute the least — the latest —  
> But just his Ear could know  
> That whatsoe'er delighted it,  
> I never would let go —
> 
> The foot to bear his errand —  
> A little Boot I know —  
> Would leap abroad like Antelope —  
> With just the grant to do —
> 
> His weariest Commandment —  
> A sweeter to obey,  
> Than "Hide and Seek" —  
> Or skip to Flutes —  
> Or all Day, chase the Bee —
> 
> Your Servant, Sir, will weary —  
> The Surgeon, will not come —  
> The World, will have its own — to do —  
> The Dust, will vex your Fame —
> 
> The Cold will force your tightest door  
> Some February Day,  
> But say my apron bring the sticks  
> To make your Cottage gay —
> 
> That I may take that promise  
> To Paradise, with me —  
> To teach the Angels, avarice,  
> You, Sir, taught first — to me."
> 
> Up next: "By homely gift and hindered Words"


	5. By homely gift and hindered Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya grapples with the sentiments that get lost in translation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first Illya chapter! Hope you enjoy it. :)

Middle ground is a second language. A third language. Imperfect and imprecise for the _extra_ in the ordinary.

Words like “love” and “home” and “future” and _“safe”_ stripped of the nuance, the fluency he needs to express the impossible. The mundane. The grace that humbles him, the salvation singing through his veins and burning in her eyes.

He will stumble through Penrose steps: those re-invented cliches and the songs that suddenly make sense. His feet will falter, his lips will stutter, his body will stagger with the weight of fathomless sincerity.

This angel would willingly share his hell with him. She would turn her back on pearly gates and paradise and dance with abandon through the flames. What can he offer her but a target on her back and a life spent looking over her shoulder?

He is a scarred psyche, a wounded spirit, and a work-in-progress temper. Unworthy of such clemency, such kindness.

But even sinners can repent and demons worship at the feet of something pure.

He will lay down his weapons, bare his throat and bare his soul to her, pledge his battered heart and blood-stained sword. He will be her mercenary, her right-hand, her shadow, if she will have him.

 _If_ she will have him.

By homely gift and hindered words, he will vow to protect and serve and love. She is a cause he can finally believe in and he will martyr himself in the only language that matters. The only one that will _ever_ matter.

His vocabulary is not one of pretty words and empty glamours.

He speaks devotion in acts of faith: steady, simple, sure. In deeds alone will he scream his allegiance and whisper balms for her aching soul.

And, in deeds alone, will he bless the uncommon common of an earth angel with tired wings and a crooked smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "By homely gift and hindered Words  
> The human heart is told  
> Of Nothing—  
> “Nothing” is the force  
> That renovates the World—"
> 
> Up next: "Crumbling is not an instant's Act"


	6. Crumbling is not an instant's Act

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya realizes that there may be more to this life than service to the KGB.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a counterpart of sorts to the preceding chapter. I didn't plan it that way, but I'm glad it turned out how it did. :)

_Crumbling is not an instant’s act,_ he realizes, _but a gradual erosion of humanity._ The years have chipped away at him, carving him in the likeness of the greater good of the lesser evil.

Mother Russia did not break him.

He was already broken.

He was a jagged-edged soul and a razor-blade heart. She did nothing to heal him, would give no comfort lest She cut Herself on the shards. _Take your pain and use it,_ She whispered. _This weakness will be your greatest strength._

He nodded and dragged himself to his feet, patched up the wounds, and learned to repay each scar in cruelty unimaginable. The whole time, looking over his shoulder for a cold smile and a flicker of Her approval.

The Berlin Wall was _nothing_ as compared to how solid, how strong, how _sure_ his faith was in his country.

Until, one day, he looked back and She didn’t.

 _Crumbling is not an instant’s act_ , he decides, _but perhaps surrender can be._ It takes a young woman with reckless courage to remind him that even Fighters can be Lovers.

She pins his arms at his sides, shields him with her body until the red haze recedes. She puts herself in harm’s way, in _his_ way, calms him with her touch and the expectation that he be _better_ than this.

Better than _what_ he is.

That night, her eyes are hot chocolate—smooth and sweet, warmth radiating deep into his bones—and a smile that wakes the dead inside of him. She can heal him with a word, with a touch, make him _feel_ as she soothes and provokes in turn.

She pins him to the ground, covers him with her body until the blackness overtakes her. Her hand reaches out for his and he feels the still-broken pieces within her.

But she is more than the sum of her parts. She is whole in her negative space, and invites him now, not out of need, but something much more humbling.

With full-bodied desire and a child-like act of trust, she brings the Wall crashing sweetly to her feet. It is surrender. Wholehearted. Freely given.

The straw did not break the camel’s back. Rather, the beast of burden prostrated himself willingly before a gentle master. A partner, a friend.  
She may free him, but he will always follow her. For _he_ is someone worth Loving and _she_ is worth Fighting for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Crumbling is not an instant's Act  
> A fundamental pause  
> Dilapidation's processes  
> Are organized Decays —
> 
> 'Tis first a Cobweb on the Soul  
> A Cuticle of Dust  
> A Borer in the Axis  
> An Elemental Rust —
> 
> Ruin is formal — Devil's work  
> Consecutive and slow —  
> Fail in an instant, no man did  
> Slipping — is Crashe's law —"
> 
> Up next: "Each Scar I'll keep for Him"


	7. Each Scar I'll keep for Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not what you look at... it's what you see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 7! How we doing, folks? :)
> 
> This one has two POV's and is another little departure/experiment for me. Hope you like it! I so appreciate all the comments and support thus far. Thank you all for reading! :)

_Each scar I’ll keep for him._ A traitor’s legacy beaten and burned and branded into his skin. Birthright of shame and sorrow, the sins of the father avenged sevenfold on the son. He will keep them all, scars scattered like the feathers when Icarus fell.

The watch on his wrist a reminder: moments lost and memories to anchor him to the past. His father protested his innocence and he has dedicated himself to picking up the pieces.

He will keep the scars in his stead.

There will be no hour of reckoning, no reconciliation. Only an unspoken understanding and the order to _endure._

 

* * *

 

 _Each scar I’ll keep for him_. A warrior’s history carved and etched and woven into his skin. Tapestry of victory and survival, the spoils of the wars he has overcome. She will keep them all, scars singing like the flutes when Apollo rejoiced.

The ring on her finger a promise: moments stolen and memories to propel them into the future. She protested her indifference and he has dedicated himself to coaxing down her walls.

She will keep the scars in his honor.

  
There will be no moment of truth, no grand declaration. Only an unspoken understanding and the invitation to _rest._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Each Scar I'll keep for Him  
> Instead I'll say of Gem  
> In His long Absence worn  
> A Costlier one
> 
> But every Tear I bore  
> Were He to count them o'er  
> His own would fall so more  
> I'll mis sum them."
> 
> Up next: "Fate slew Him, but He did not drop"


	8. Fate slew Him, but He did not drop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya takes his fate into his own hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This somehow became a prequel/counterpart to Chapter 4. Somedeepmystery, here's another one for you then! <3

One of these days, he’s going to look back on this moment with pride. A bitter, twisted satisfaction for the way he stood when the news _should_ have brought him to his knees.

How he kept his head high and held the phone steady. Spoke without any hint of the emotions threatening to betray him.

_“Understood. I will start packing.”_

This is worse than the night they dragged his father screaming from their home. Worse than the first time a “family friend” beat his mother and _every_ time he was helpless to stop it after.

Worse, even, than Rome.

When he had let her walk away—the woman he could love—and set out to kill _him_ , the man he could trust.

It is worse because it is true.

He loves the British spy from East Berlin and trusts the American war profiteer with his life.

With _Gaby’s_ life.

Respects, too, his superior. The Englishman who saved him from treason charges. Who treats him like an equal. Like a _human._

For the first time in his life, Illya is serving the needs of the many. He is using terms like _cooperation_ and _de-escalation_ , proposing solutions that promise “peace, without victory”.

He is a better man for his time in UNCLE and _that_ is why they are calling him back.

A hand anchors him at the doorway. He is startled by the strength of the man’s grip. “If you are _truly_ willing to die for this, Kuryakin, then...”

Waverly pauses. His voice is low, deliberate. “Then I think that can be arranged.”

 

* * *

 

Twenty-four hours ago, “Illya Kuryakin” went down in flames. A tragic accident. A victim of stars and circumstance.

His immortal soul has been claimed by an eternal master. His body identified by a charred, leather band and a cracked, glass dial.

Fate slew him, but he did not drop.

He stands tall now—golden Atlas—the weight of the world upon him. He will shoulder his burden with patience, with pride until his punishment is lifted.

One day, he will return from exile.

He will lay down his troubles and break the final chains of Fate.

He will rise from the ashes, born under the constellations of his own making. He is no longer bound to a thousand, cosmic leashes.

He will rearrange the stars as he sees fit and charter the course of his own destiny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "FATE slew him, but he did not drop;  
> She felled—he did not fall—  
> Impaled him on her fiercest stakes—  
> He neutralized them all.
> 
> She stung him, sapped his firm advance,  
> But, when her worst was done,  
> And he, unmoved, regarded her,  
> Acknowledged him a man." 
> 
> Up next: "Forever—is composed of Nows"


	9. Forever—is composed of Nows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solo teaches Gaby and Illya a lesson about life and love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Solo decided to crash the party, haha. Enjoy! :)

Solo stands on the balcony, drinking in the gorgeous, silhouetted skyline and an expensive bottle of scotch. It’s a shame he can’t enjoy either.

The air around him is heavy, humming with an electrifying undercurrent. It crackles with building energy, presses in on him with suffocating tension.

There is a storm coming… and it has nothing to do with the humidity.

 

* * *

 

His partners have been fighting again.

There was nothing amiss when Solo returned to their shared hotel room. And _that_ is what immediately tips him off.

Gaby is subdued, curled in on herself around a book. She’s reading, but she can’t possibly be comprehending anything.

Peril, on the other hand, is skulking in the opposite corner. He, too, is overly-absorbed in his work—eavesdropping on what is, in all likelihood, a silent apartment. He is _also_ , Solo notes, guarding the well-stocked sideboard like a jealous lover.

No doubt out of some misguided sense of duty. The _same_ one that’s been causing so much trouble lately.

Solo brushed past the Russian watchdog to grab the scotch and two glasses. He could feel two icy lasers searing into his spine as he did so, before cutting off abruptly as he approached the mechanic.

Peril, it would seem, is resolutely _not_ looking over in that direction. He sighed, poured drinks for him and Gaby and has since retreated to the balcony.

 

* * *

 

He is out here to clear his head. A partial truth. He needs a reprieve from the silent, stifling conflict that threatens to swallow him whole, but needs it to mull things over. Mull _them_ over.

They’ve reversed their positions since Rome.

Whatever demons were holding her back before, Gaby has overcome them and made the switch from push to _pull_.

Should it surprise him, then, that the only thing standing between her and what she wants is a Russian? An insufferably thick-headed Russian.

Even outside the Wall, the Soviets are dictating what the mechanic can and can’t have.

Peril, for his part, seems absolutely _hell-bent_ on suffering. He makes a miserable martyr—lovestruck, honor-bound, determined to protect Gaby at all costs.

To protect himself, as well.

Truth be told, Solo would wager that the Russian is _scared_. Scared that Gaby could want him, of what that could do to him, of what that could do to _her_.

He’s paralyzed at the possibility of his most cherished dream coming true. And still, he would follow her unquestioningly to the ends of the earth. Would have done so even _after_ Gaby betrayed them and they were to go their separate ways.

She wears his ring too. Wears it no matter what the mission, either on her finger or a chain around her neck. Their engagement may have been fake, but the sentiment, it appears, is anything but.

And if _that_ ’s not love, then Solo doesn’t know what is.

 _They’re fools_ , he decides, _the both of them. Two fools in love making the worst possible mistake: never giving themselves a chance._

He sighs and downs the rest of his drink.

_This has gone on long enough._

 

* * *

 

He marches back into the suite and gathers the troops.

It’s easier than he expects. Gaby doesn’t put up a fight and Peril only gives a token gesture of disapproval before moving to stand stiffly at her side. They look at him expectantly.

“Tell me, which one of you was cursed by an evil witch?”

Blank stares. A preemptive ticking in the Russian’s hand. He ignores them both.

“No? Are you living in a Greek or Shakespearean tragedy?” He pauses for effect, flashes a smile that he knows will get under their skins. “Have _either_ of you taken Holy Orders without telling me?”

“Get to the point, Cowboy.”

“So, just to recap: you _haven’t_ taken a vow of celibacy, you’re _not_ cursed, and the _only_ author of whatever tragic, loveless end you’re heading towards is _yourself._ Does that sound about right to you?”

Peril steps towards him, but Solo doesn’t back down. He holds up a hand to stop him.“I see no reason, then, _Illya_ , why you should be denied a happy ending. Gaby, too.”

That stops the Russian in his tracks. He makes to say something, but the mechanic interrupts. Her voice trembles, but her eyes burn into his. “Happily ever after is a _myth_ , Solo. You of all people should understand.”

The comment stings, but he brushes it off.

“All I’m saying, not every forever needs to last an eternity. If you two love each other—which, if you haven’t already realized it, you do—and have no intentions of leaving—which you don’t—then why not enjoy the time you _do_ have together?”

His partners are quiet and suddenly preoccupied with the carpet and decor around them. Gaby fiddles with her ring and Peril’s posture begins to soften. The distance between them becomes less rigidly defined. If anything, it seems to subconsciously be closing.

It’s progress, but Solo isn’t done yet.

“One of these days, you’re going to look back and realize that _forever_ is composed of nows. You don’t need tomorrow, trust me. You only need today.”

He grabs his coat and heads to the door. “Play nice, you two. I’ll see you in the morning.”

The door hasn’t even shut before there’s a flash of movement behind him and a muffled gasp from Gaby.

Solo smiles as he strolls down the hall, the sounds of furniture toppling and glass breaking dogging his footsteps like a celestial symphony.

His work here is done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Forever – is composed of Nows –  
> ‘Tis not a different time –  
> Except for Infiniteness –  
> And Latitude of Home – 
> 
> From this – experienced Here –  
> Remove the Dates – to These –  
> Let Months dissolve in further Months –  
> And Years – exhale in Years – 
> 
> Without Debate – or Pause –  
> Or Celebrated Days –  
> No different Our Years would be  
> From Anno Dominies –"
> 
> Up next: "He lived the Life of Ambush"


	10. He lived the Life of Ambush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon Solo character study!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is inspired by the gentleman's signet ring that Solo wears (and which was designed, in part, by Henry Cavill). The ring depicts the Roman god, Janus, who governs: beginnings and transitions, gates and doors, endings and time. He has two faces. One looks to the past and the other to the future.
> 
> Thanks for reading! :)

When life closes doors, he learned to pick the locks.

His patron saint is the god whose two faces grace his ring: Janus, the eternal doorman. Master of the past and future, lord of beginnings and endings.

He lived the life of ambush: striking while the iron was hot, skipping out before it cooled.

He wears identities like a second skin, slips in and out of characters like just another expensive suit. He is a man of galas and back alleys, trenches and big parades. Thief who stole away as a gentleman, soldier turned prisoner-of-war in his own country.

But, one day, this Janus will tire of looking over his shoulder and ache for a sense of permanence. He will peel away the glamour, the layers of half-lives and reinventions, and appeal to the gods one last time.

One more beginning.

And the doors to close firmly behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "He lived the Life of Ambush  
> And went the way of Dusk  
> And now against his subtle name  
> There stands an Asterisk  
> As confident of him as we —  
> Impregnable we are —  
> The whole of Immortality intrenched  
> Within a star —"
> 
> Up next: "How ruthless are the gentle"


	11. How ruthless are the gentle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaby explores the paradox of her Russian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was trying to maintain the serious, emotionally charged head space to correspond with this chapter, but in reality, I spent a solid five minutes laughing at the thought of Alexander Vinciguerra saying "They are going to send an Armie to stop us". Cue the smash-cut to the scene of Illya attacking Solo in the men's room.
> 
> Now, keep that juxtaposition in mind as you read this one, haha.

He pulls her into a desperate embrace, chest heaving and heart thundering. Her captors’ bodies lay broken around them, rose petals he’s strewn at her feet.

She breathes him in and leans into this paradox.

 _How ruthless are the gentle,_ she thinks.

He may kill in cold blood, but she knows his heart could warm her through eternal winter.

These hands that now smooth over her skin and soothe her battered soul are the same ones that cripple regimes and fell entire armies.

He is sword and he is shield and she wonders then how cruelty could _ever_ be so kind.

It is not his brute strength that scares her, but his brute sympathy instead: an onslaught of compassion and warmth that he drives into every corner of her being.

There is a violence in his tenderness—an urgency, an _insistence_ , in the way he comforts and protects and loves.

He is relentless in her ruin, and still, she will sigh his name and scream her gratitude to the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "How ruthless are the gentle—  
> How cruel are the kind—  
> God broke his contract to his Lamb  
> To qualify the Wind—"
> 
> Up next: "I am afraid to own a Body"


	12. I am afraid to own a Body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaby comforts Illya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been looking forward to writing this one for quite a while. You can read it as a companion to the previous chapter or as its own story. And, with this chapter, I will have reached 50,000 words for this fandom since I started writing back in August! :)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I always appreciate comments, so please don't be shy!

An early morning chill shudders through the curtains at the open window. It had been stifling when they went to bed and now the cold is seeping into her bones. She shivers, curls closer to the furnace that is Illya.

He’s not there.

Gaby opens her eyes and blinks heavily as she scans the room. No sign of the Russian. She grabs her robe, bracing herself as her feet touch the ground. She hisses. An icy jolt shoots up her spine.

The mechanic pads softly to the living room, illuminated by the dim, orange-tinged glow of a street light. She sighs when she sees him huddled in the corner. It is from sadness, rather than relief.

Gaby approaches him cautiously. She is careful to walk in his line of sight, to call his name softly before attempting to touch him. She’s not sure _how_ he might react in such a state.

“Illya,” she says again. He flinches when she sets her hand on his upper arm. Her touch is light, but she can feel him shaking under her fingers. It’s not entirely from emotion, either.

“You’re cold.”

Gaby slips off her robe, and—undersized though it may be—drapes it over his shoulders. He doesn’t return her smile.

She tucks her legs under her as she joins him on the floor, wincing when the fabric rides up and her exposed skin meets the hardwood. Ever so gently and ever so _slowly_ , she takes his hands in hers. She holds them until their ticking stops, until her warmth bleeds into them.

They are silent for a long time.

His eyes stare unseeingly into the middle distance and his breathing is still shallow. But calming, she notes.

The moments creep past until Gaby’s legs begin to ache and her bare arms start to freeze. She stands to stretch and adjust her position. Illya’s hands suddenly close over her own.

“Stay,” he rasps. _“Please.”_

She nods and he pulls her into his lap, her robe sliding unnoticed to the floor. He wraps himself around her, body heat thawing the ice in her skin.

Illya strokes her hair, her arms, her back—taking comfort in the comforting. She breathes deep and slow until their chests rise and fall in unison.

He rests his forehead against hers and his eyes close for a moment. “Gaby,” he whispers. “I am… afraid.”

His voice is hoarse, his accent thick with emotion. _Exhaustion, too,_ if the dark shadows under his eyes are to be believed. She presses closer to him, encouraging. “Of what?”

Illya swallows hard. His grip around her tightens and she begins to feel the tell-tale tapping start. “I am _afraid_ ,” he repeats. “I am afraid to own a body.”

A deep, shuddering breath.

“I am a weapon. Dangerous. It is selfish,” he murmurs, though his eyes drink her in possessively, “to think I could have you like this.”

She ducks her head so he won’t see her roll her eyes, huffs, and meets his wide-eyed stare with her steady one. “Because you can hurt me?”

Illya nods, drops his gaze from hers. His hands reluctantly peel away from her sides. “No,” she says. They hover a moment before returning to her, uncertain featherweights.

“Have you ever hurt me, Illya?”

He shakes his head.

“No.”

“In Rome, when they took your father’s watch, did you hurt me? When I slapped you and tackled you later that night?”

A hesitant smile ghosts over his face at the memory. He shakes his head again. The smile drops as soon as she speaks again.

“When I betrayed you to the Vinciguerras, did you hurt me then or _any_ time after?”

A long pause, before, slowly, quietly, “No.”

Gaby cups her hand around his cheek and he sighs, at war with himself. She watches his Adam’s apple bob before his heart wins out and he leans into her touch. His hands double their pressure as her free hand slides up his chest.

“I won’t ask you to promise that you will never hurt me, Illya. We can’t know the future, but I know, I _know_ that you would never do anything to harm me unless you had no other choice. Or unless it wasn’t _you_.”

She takes his face roughly in her hands. Her eyes burn into his, searing her sincerity, her _certainty_ into him.

“You are more than your body. More than a weapon and I am _not_ scared of you, Illya.” She gestures between them, “And this? This is a risk I am willing to take.”

Gaby presses a soft kiss to his scar and helps him to his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I am afraid to own a Body -  
> I am afraid to own a Soul -  
> Profound - precarious Property -  
> Possession, not optional - 
> 
> Double Estate - entailed at pleasure  
> Upon an unsuspecting Heir -  
> Duke in a moment of Deathlessness  
> And God, for a Frontier."
> 
> Up next: "I can't tell you—but you feel it"


	13. I can't tell you—but you feel it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Expectation meets reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing romance (at any level of heat) is still very new for me. Please let me know how I'm doing! :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!

He has her pressed against a wall, their breaths are mingling, and she can feel his heart thundering in his chest.

It’s not what it looks like.

Illya, dressed in his black tactical, is covering her brightly-colored frame from view. Though the alley is dark and the setting sun casts long shadows around them, Solo’s sartorial selection could still compromise their position.

 _Not that_ this _position is any less compromising_ , she thinks.

Coarse shouts in a language she doesn’t know, heavy footsteps, and the unmistakable sound of guns being fired. Their pursuers race by, oblivious, caught in the confusion and crossfire of their dissolving organization.

Illya pins her tighter against the bricks until the danger passes. Gaby can feel his touch, his warmth, the rise and fall of his chest—everything in minute detail. Her head is dizzy with adrenaline and the familiar, clean musk that is entirely his own.

She clears her throat and he quickly releases her. A flush creeps up his cheeks, visible even in the fast-fading light. He swallows thickly.

The Russian has let her go, but he’s still crowding her against the wall, one hand still braced over her head. She’s unable to get past him.

She doesn’t want to.

Her decision made, Gaby slides her hands up his chest. His breath catches in his throat. He looks down at her: pupils blown, but startled. Warring. Wary.

Those blue eyes are question marks, begging for confirmation, for _permission_ , as his palm firms on her lower back and his free hand sinks slowly into her long-ruined tresses.

She sighs at his touch and steps forward, closing what little distance there is left between them.

“Illya,” she breathes and he hums in response, toying idly with a long, dark lock. Her hand slips to the back of his neck, scratches softly through the blond bristles there. He stifles a low grunt.

“What is this?” she asks.

Her hand leaves his neck to gesture vaguely between them. He looks like he might die from the loss of it.

Illya draws her closer against him—if that were even possible. She has to crane her neck to look up at him, to see his eyes drifting, magnetized, to her lips.

“I can’t tell you,” he shrugs. A heavy sigh. “But you feel it.”

He pauses then, suddenly hesitant. “You _do_ feel it, yes?”

Gaby smiles. Even now, when there can be _no_ mistaking her intentions, he still needs her reassurance. Her blessing.

“Yes,” she whispers and pulls him down to her.  
When Solo finds them ten minutes later, it is _exactly_ what it looks like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I can't tell you—but you feel it—  
> Nor can you tell me—  
> Saints, with ravished slate and pencil  
> Solve our April Day!
> 
> Sweeter than a vanished frolic  
> From a vanished green!  
> Swifter than the hoofs of Horsemen  
> Round a Ledge of dream!
> 
> Modest, let us walk among it  
> With our faces veiled—  
> As they say polite Archangels  
> Do in meeting God!
> 
> Not for me—to prate about it!  
> Not for you—to say  
> To some fashionable Lady  
> "Charming April Day"!
> 
> Rather—Heaven's "Peter Parley"!  
> By which Children slow  
> To sublimer Recitation  
> Are prepared to go!"
> 
> Up next: "I see thee better—in the Dark"


	14. I see thee better—in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solo is a man of shadows and spotlights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I updated the language on this one... using "you" instead of "thee". We'll just have to save that for a Shakespearean AU, haha. Thanks, as always, for reading!

Regardless of the occasion, the American is _always_ the main attraction.

He commands every room like a stage, radiates charisma like the spotlights that vie for his attention. He is a born performer. A showman.

And at one point, he could have fooled her.

Gaby has since peeked behind the magic curtain and caught a few, precious glimpses of the _real_ Napoleon Solo:

 _In an abandoned safehouse in Algiers_... the man, always tailored to an inch of his _life_ , didn’t think twice before ruining his best shirts for bandages. He tore Egyptian cotton that night like tissue paper, stitched up the Russian’s wounds by candlelight.

 _In a forest in Wales_ … he cracked jokes while bleeding out in the backseat of her car, more concerned with her prized upholstery than his own injuries. He never complained as they hurtled, headlights off, through the foreboding tangle of trees and makeshift trails.

 _In a cemetery in London, a few nights before Christmas..._ she had trudged by moonlight to visit her father’s grave. He had already left flowers there—as well as a bottle of vodka and words of encouragement for her eyes only.

He is there during those infinite nights while Illya is in Russia. There to dance with her, to share drinks and swap stories, to take her mind off her worries. _There_ to comfort her with his presence when she needs him most.

She needs him now in a hospital in Zurich.

Her eyes are red-rimmed from exhaustion and the tears that won’t come. Despite all the doctors’ assurances that they were “optimistic” about his condition, Gaby’s chest is still lung-crushingly tight.

She cards her fingers through Illya’s hair and holds his hand as he sleeps. A sleep she isn’t sure he’ll wake from. Her gentle, broken humming stops when the door cracks open.

A shadow slips into the room, barely discernible in the heavy swathes of darkness around her.

Solo joins her in her vigil and she begins to breathe a little easier. He presses something into her hands and her heart could _break_ from the gratitude she feels.

“For when he wakes up,” he tells her.

She simply nods and holds onto the watch like a lifeline. It ticks softly, a tiny heartbeat in her palms to keep hers going.

Gaby blinks back her tears to glance at the silhouette beside her. “You are a man of spotlights, Solo,” she says, a sad smile on her lips, “but I see you better in the dark.”

The American chuckles quietly and wraps his arm around her shoulders.

They will wait until Waverly joins them in the morning, _wait_ until Illya wakes up four days later.

 _Wait_ until their family is complete once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I see thee better—in the Dark—  
> I do not need a Light—  
> The Love of Thee—a Prism be—  
> Excelling Violet—
> 
> I see thee better for the Years  
> That hunch themselves between—  
> The Miner's Lamp—sufficient be—  
> To nullify the Mine—
> 
> And in the Grave—I see Thee best—  
> Its little Panels be  
> Aglow—All ruddy—with the Light  
> I held so high, for Thee—
> 
> What need of Day—  
> To Those whose Dark—hath so—surpassing Sun—  
> It deem it be—Continually—  
> At the Meridian?"
> 
> Up next: "I'm ceded—I've stopped being Theirs"


	15. I'm ceded—I've stopped being Theirs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The decision was much simpler than he could have imagined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halfway done! For all you true NaNo writers out there... you have all my respect and all my best wishes! :)
> 
> I love happy endings and thought this series needed a bit of levity. It took longer to write than I had expected, but I hope it's worth the wait. Please enjoy and thank you for reading and leaving such wonderful comments!

His flight arrives in the gray, drizzly hours of an early London morning. The city may be asleep, but Illya has _never_ felt more alive.

He chats animatedly (if one-sidedly) to the cab driver the entire ride home, pausing only to listen—no, to _appreciate—_ the song that bursts over the radio: a female singer with a deep, bluesy voice and lyrics that reverberate within his soul.

He understands, now, how Gaby must feel when she dances.

Illya takes the stairs three at a time, wondering all the while if his feet ever truly touch the ground. He whistles as he unlocks the front door—he can’t seem to help himself. The song is too infectious, too perfect for this moment.

He enters the apartment and _laughs_.

There is Gaby— _his_ Gaby!—with the Makarov he gave her trained at his chest. She is aiming to kill. _Good._

She cautiously lowers her gun: eyes startled, hair mussed from sleep.

She is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

Gaby only manages to get his name out before he’s crushing her to his chest, breathing in the lingering florals of her perfume.

“You’re home.” Her voice is slightly muffled, but his heart swells with the sentiment all the same.

 _Home_.

He allows her to wriggle out of his grasp, just enough to speak unencumbered. “You’re home,” she repeats. “Three weeks early.”

Illya nods.

“I left.”

He adjusts his hold on the mechanic and pulls her into an impromptu dance. He starts to hum that dark, soaring melody and thinks, briefly, whether _he_ had looked as confused that night in Rome. Gaby shuffles along, following his lead in an inexpert box step.

 _“Left?_ ” She listens more closely. “And is that... Nina Simone?”

“You know this song?”

“I have it, but Illya—”

“Could you play it? Please?”

She hesitates, but slowly winds her way to the turntable. He stays close behind and, as soon as the music starts up, he pulls her into another dance. A better dance.

Gaby lays her head on his chest and he would be content to stay that way forever. Her voice cuts suddenly through the soft haze in his mind.

“What happened in Russia?”

His smile falters, but doesn’t drop. There is too much within an honest answer that would break her heart.

“Is not important. What matters is that I’m,” he frowns, considering, “ _ceded_.” He twirls her then like he’s always dreamed of doing, his grin threatening to split his face in two. “I’ve stopped being theirs.”

Gaby freezes.

Her eyes read him by degrees and she seems to have momentarily stopped breathing. Illya smiles, reassuring.

“Waverly,” he explains.

Illya’s kisses begin to trail from her crown to her temple and down towards her jaw. Slowly, _slowly_ does Gaby emerge from her trance. “That still doesn’t tell me anything.”

She huffs, frustrated, when his lips leave the pulse point at her neck. He smirks. “You want to know? Come, we will go see Cowboy and _then_ , I will tell you both.”

The mechanic sets her hands on her hips. He beams affectionately at that all too familiar scowl she gives him. “I need to know, Illya, if you’re in danger. If _we’re_ in danger.”

“No,” he promises. “We are safe.”

The Englishman had seen to that.

Gaby hums shortly. She nods, looks back up at him with a new intensity, a coy smile. “Then I suppose Solo can wait—”

He sweeps her off her feet before she can finish her sentence. Illya smiles against her kiss as the music crescendos around them.

_It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life for me…_

_And I’m feeling good._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'm ceded—I've stopped being Theirs—  
> The name They dropped upon my face  
> With water, in the country church  
> Is finished using, now,  
> And They can put it with my Dolls,  
> My childhood, and the string of spools,  
> I've finished threading—too—
> 
> Baptized, before, without the choice,  
> But this time, consciously, of Grace—  
> Unto supremest name—  
> Called to my Full—The Crescent dropped—  
> Existence's whole Arc, filled up,  
> With one—small Diadem—
> 
> My second Rank—too small the first—  
> Crowned—Crowing—on my Father's breast—  
> A half unconscious Queen—  
> But this time—Adequate—Erect,  
> With Will to choose,  
> or to reject,  
> And I choose, just a Crown—"
> 
> Up next: "If What we could—were what we would"


	16. If What we could—were what we would

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new year, a new beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be bittersweet, but my happy shipper heart took over. Please enjoy! :)

They are in Athens. New Year’s Eve. A fake identity, a fake engagement. A real kiss.

At least, it _feels_ real.

The weight of near-misses and not quites have been lifted at the stroke of midnight, no longer suspended above them like swords of Damocles.

Illya supposes he should let go of her and return to the task at hand, but _nothing_ could ever seem more important now than the woman in his arms. Time and all the world and all the _missions_ have come to a standstill in these first, magical moments of 1964.

Eventually, Gaby parts from him, palms smoothing over his chest to gently push him away. Her eyes are bright, cheeks flushed, and her words are incomprehensible to his fevered mind.

The mechanic smirks as she pulls him back down to her. Her nails graze his neck and her breath is hot against his ear.

“We need those files.”

Illya sighs, frustrated in more ways than one, and forces himself to walk away. He feels her eyes on him as he winds through the crowd before slipping out to track down the American.

 

* * *

 

Three hours later, he is alone in his hotel room: the chess game long-abandoned, the memory of their kiss anything but.

Gaby materializes at his bedside—all darkened eyes and plush lips—and he swears he’s dreaming. _How had he not heard her come in?_

The apparition shrugs. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Illya nods, makes room for her to join him. And, just like that, Gaby is in his bed, settling in like she’s always been there. Like she _belongs_ there.

And who is he to say otherwise?

Gaby _is in his bed_ , he repeats. Gaby is in _his_ bed.

Gaby is in his _bed._

He doesn’t know which part to emphasize most. His mind stutters and whirs over the surrealness of it all.

“I couldn’t _sleep_ , Illya, because I was thinking about you.”

His breath hitches and again, he has to wonder if this is only a dream. He meets the mechanic’s gaze: unmistakably real, and, as he notes with a start, _sober_.

He swallows hard.

Gaby is here because she _wants_ to be. The thought would thrill him if it didn’t scare him so much. He knows that there will be no excuses to hide behind come morning.

 _Whatever_ happens next, they won’t be able to take back.

“Gaby,” he begins, wanting and warning in equal measure. She shakes her head, dark locks dancing in the semi-darkness.

Her voice is soft, hesitant, the words familiar and foreign at the same time. He’s had this conversation with himself every night since Rome. And now he will hear it from her.

“If what we could…”

“Were what he would…”

“Would it even matter?”

A heavy sigh punctuates her question. She reaches out, takes one of his hands in hers. “We are never going to be our covers. _Never_ going to be an ordinary couple.”

Her grip tightens.

“But that’s not to say we could never be a real one.” She lifts her eyes to meet his. “So, I’m asking again, Illya, would it _matter_ to you if we can’t have what was never meant for us?”

He leans forward, his free hand rising to cup her cheek. “The _only_ thing that matters to me, Gaby, is that I can have you. _If_ you will have me.”

The mechanic laughs quietly as she holds up her left hand. The moonlight gleams on a certain black pearl. “I’m already yours, remember?”

She nestles sleepily against him. “Congratulations,” she murmurs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "If What we could — were what we would —  
> Criterion — be small —  
> It is the Ultimate of Talk —  
> The Impotence to Tell —"
> 
> Up next: "Is it too late to touch you, Dear?"


	17. Is it too late to touch you, Dear?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ring, a realization, and an unfinished kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuation/counterpart to Chapter 1. Thanks for reading!

Her apology startles away the uneasy silence.

“I really wanted to tell you, but—”

“It’s okay,” he assures her. “I would have done exactly the same thing in your position.” He means it. For if anyone understands compliance, it is Illya Kuryakin. Only now, when he looks at her, he can feel those loyalties being tested.

As far as he and anyone at the KGB are concerned, Gabriella Teller was nothing more than a civilian bargaining chip used to get to her father. If she quietly struck a deal with the Americans to defect, Illya would have no knowledge of that either.

He thinks then of betrayals he understands and almost kisses he doesn’t, wonders if the mechanic had also begun to live her cover.

Wonders if it even matters.

They will likely never see each other again.

_But what if they do?_

The thought jolts him, forbidden though it is. If their paths crossed in the field, could he still protect her? Strike up a new alliance?

And if he saw her _outside_ of a mission, what then?

He dismisses that line of thinking before he hangs himself with it. The doors are closing. He can feel it: a finality that threatens to crush him. His condolences are inadequate, and, she, numb with regret and grief bittersweet, is edging away from him.

He offers her a drink to prolong the inevitable. To lead to something more if they would only let it. He knows that he would dance with her if given another chance.

But duty comes first.

That, too, he understands.

Illya’s heart is in his throat when she paces back to him, drops when she returns the ring. The last tie between them severed.

Again, his allegiance wavers and defiance rears its head. He has already given the mechanic his heart. He will give her the ring too. Not because a mission prompts him, but because of a _different_ kind of necessity.

And _maybe_ this powerful, dangerous little promise could be something true for her in a world of counterfeited lives.

 _If this is goodbye_ , he thinks, _then what does he have to lose?_

“No,” he says, slipping it back onto her finger. “You should keep it. As souvenir. That way I can keep track of you.”

Illya promised he would be close by. And, now, he can be. It may only be in her memory, but that is more than enough for him.

His eyes begin to search hers desperately, begging a single question.

_Is it too late to touch you, dear?_

In light of new revelations and in spite of who they are, _what_ they are, her hands are wrapping around his wrists and the distance between them is closing…

Closing…

Then she is gone.

Another kiss unfinished and a wound he hopes will never heal. The Russian will ache and bleed at the thought of her, but he will always be _grateful_ for the pain.

For Gaby Teller is the one who got under his skin and into his heart. The one who took a monster and turned him into a man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Is it too late to touch you, Dear?  
> We this moment knew—  
> Love Marine and Love terrene—  
> Love celestial too—"
> 
> Up next: "It's easy to invent a Life"


	18. It's easy to invent a Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Napoleon Solo is Jay Gatsby, then he must also be Jay Gatz.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Solo wanted another (solo) chapter, so there ya go! Henry Cavill's backstory for Solo is that he is an Anglophile whose Irish immigrant father worked as a janitor. I headcanon that his father worked at the local schools and would bring home books that students had simply discarded (a lot of classics, poetry, and more 'academic' literature) and that these books served as a form of escape and inspiration for him. 
> 
> The Great Gatsby was published in 1925 and received largely mixed reviews. The book only became widely read by the masses and appreciated by the education system during World War II... the time when a certain 16-year-old Solo lied his way into the army. The resulting headcanon is this character study (minus Illya's eye-rolling and critiques that Solo's Gatsby aspirations are *misguided* at best). I won't spoil the ending of Gatsby... I just like the idea of Illya yelling at Solo over it. :)
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!

He is Jay Gatsby made flesh: the humble boy, the dreamer, the soldier who rose to the only rank that matters.

_Upper Class._

He is hushed-up New Money and self-taught social graces. A persona complicated by secrecy and urban legend. He took the marble of his existence and carved himself a new identity.

But Napoleon Solo is no fool.

There is no green light, no _woman_ to pine after. Only the siren song of his freedom and the patience and skill to play the long game.

_It’s easy to invent a life._

His entire _career_ has been built on facades and falsehoods, on forged papers and fake names. The difficulty lies in the empty hours: the world saved, the lights out, the last guest sent home. He stays in character after every performance.

Because why would he ever want to return to _that?_

The challenge, he knows, is not in the creation. It is in the recapturing of truth. If Napoleon Solo is Gatsby, then he must _also_ be Jay Gatz: the son of the janitor, the son of the immigrant, the _sun_ who could burn the wings of an Icarus, less-worthy.

Perhaps his stars have always been crossed.

Perhaps he has never cared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "It's easy to invent a Life—  
> God does it—every Day—  
> Creation—but the Gambol  
> Of His Authority—
> 
> It's easy to efface it—  
> The thrifty Deity  
> Could scarce afford Eternity  
> To Spontaneity—
> 
> The Perished Patterns murmur—  
> But His Perturbless Plan  
> Proceed—inserting Here—a Sun—  
> There—leaving out a Man—"
> 
> Up next: "Luck is not chance"


	19. Luck is not chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A study of how the team treats Luck, as seen through Waverly's eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I planned this as a Solo chapter. Luck laughed. :) Waverly POV was requested by Somedeepmystery and here is the result! We'll see where else I can fit him in!
> 
> Today marks one month since I posted the last chapter of All Roads Lead to Rome. If any of you are wondering when Part 2 is coming, the answer is soon. That is terribly vague, I know, but I *am* working on it, slowly but surely! Between this little series, my gift exchange fic, and some other holiday/time specific ones I've got planned, my missing moments series has had to take a backseat. But I have outlined and started research and made some progress on Chapter One. Thank you so much for your patience and investment in my story. It means the world!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Comments are always appreciated. :)

If he understands only one thing, it is that Luck is not chance. She is _incident_ , not accident: a coy smile, an arched brow, and an invitation to be _adaptable._ Fortune may favor the bold, but first, Her favor must be earned.

He chased Luck all throughout his prime—much like the American does now. Ravishing and enraging and winning Her back with smooth words and an easy charm. He saw Her then as a fickle Mistress. He shouldn’t have been surprised when She treated him as such.

Those were lean years that followed. He rebuffed Her in the same way the Russian does, spurned Her, denied Her very existence. He took his life in both hands and bent the world to his will. He lost that fight, found himself in the bottom of the bottle or a haze of pungent smoke.

He does not blame Her anymore for his decisions.

Waverly has since recanted, rekindled that flame: a better, wiser man. While the German still views Her with cautious eyes and a grudging hesitation, he greets Her like an old friend. A business partner.

Luck gave him a second chance and he has worked _tirelessly_ to deserve it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Luck is not chance—  
> It’s Toil—  
> Fortune’s expensive smile  
> Is earned—  
> The Father of the Mine  
> Is that old-fashioned Coin  
> We spurned—"
> 
> Up next: "My Life had stood—a Loaded Gun"


	20. My Life had stood—a Loaded Gun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya contemplates surrender.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As much as I like to use the direct quote in these chapters, I decided to modify this one to third person. It's a variation on themes from previous chapters, but can still stand on its own. 
> 
> 20 days in... we're 2/3 there! Thanks for sticking with me!

He is impatient for martyrdom. Pawn and patriot. One finger on the trigger, one foot in the grave. He is the deadliest weapon in the KGB’s arsenal, but _he_ is not enough.

They will _always_ demand more from him. More leverage, more compliance, more bloodshed. Always finding enemies in their own shadows, inventing new threats to eliminate. They will hollow him out from the constant taking, empty his clip just to fill him up again—a name on each of his bullets.

They will retire him one day.

And he will let them.

In truth, it will be a relief to surrender.

He has never considered a different outcome for himself. His ending has been written, the stars hung in the sky. Pretending otherwise could only ever bring him pain.

But then he met the mechanic and, inexplicably, the suffering began to ease.

If his life had stood a loaded gun, then Gaby had been the one to disarm him. She uncurled his shaking fists and he wondered how she _couldn’t_ feel all the blood on them: his legacy of ghosts and sins and “following orders”.

Maybe she did.

Maybe that’s what makes her extraordinary.

She had been the first to brave the red mist. She searched for him in the chaos and the darkness and brought him back. Brought him _peace_ and the barest flickering of hope.

Illya Kuryakin is the KGB’s deadliest weapon. On the day of his surrender, he will lay his arms at her feet and know that he is finally in good hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun -  
> In Corners - till a Day  
> The Owner passed - identified -  
> And carried Me away -
> 
> And now We roam in Sovreign Woods -  
> And now We hunt the Doe -  
> And every time I speak for Him  
> The Mountains straight reply -
> 
> And do I smile, such cordial light  
> Opon the Valley glow -  
> It is as a Vesuvian face  
> Had let it’s pleasure through -
> 
> And when at Night - Our good Day done -  
> I guard My Master’s Head -  
> ’Tis better than the Eider Duck’s  
> Deep Pillow - to have shared -
> 
> To foe of His - I’m deadly foe -  
> None stir the second time -  
> On whom I lay a Yellow Eye -  
> Or an emphatic Thumb -
> 
> Though I than He - may longer live  
> He longer must - than I -  
> For I have but the power to kill,  
> Without - the power to die -"
> 
> Up next: "One of the ones that Midas touched"


	21. One of the ones that Midas touched

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's more to Solo than meets the eye and Gaby is determined to prove it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is (very loosely) tied to Chapter 14—or, at least, to the idea that Gaby has been privy to Solo's humanity/heart of gold—and Chapter 18. This one is more "prosetry" (my word for these hybrid prose poems), so the dynamic between Gaby and Solo might be a bit vague. It's not intended to come across as romantic, but making overt references to friendship/family didn't work tonally with this piece. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! :)

Gambler and thief, he is one of the ones that Midas touched. His life is charmed, his smile gilt and dazzling like the sun: beautiful and warming from a distance, but devastating to those who get too close.

She has tried before.

He surrounds himself with pretty trinkets and pretty people—coolly appraised, governed by a hedonistic logic. No attachments to complicate, no entanglements to ensnare.

 _It’s nothing personal_ , he assures her.

Clever hands and molten eyes, he holds the world at arm’s length, spins gold from the straw of ordinary existence. And she, savior or semaphore, had dared to spare him that pain, too familiar: the suffering of his own invention.

But the man is wedded to self-preservation, wearing loneliness like his signet ring: a subtle display, a badge of honor. _Can’t leave home without it._ Yes, she has tried before and she will try again as long as it takes.

For underneath his armor bronzed and his teeth like flashing swords, she has caught a glimpse of a faltering, fledgling humanity.

She will sift through the silt of his soul, cleanse him like the river Pactolus. Mine him, break through his walls for something far more precious than gems.

She will not rest until she unearths his heart of gold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "One of the ones that Midas touched  
> Who failed to touch us all  
> Was that confiding Prodigal  
> The reeling Oriole—
> 
> So drunk he disavows it  
> With badinage divine—  
> So dazzling we mistake him  
> For an alighting Mine—
> 
> A Pleader—a Dissembler—  
> An Epicure—a Thief—  
> Betimes an Oratorio—  
> An Ecstasy in chief—
> 
> The Jesuit of Orchards  
> He cheats as he enchants  
> Of an entire Attar  
> For his decamping wants—
> 
> The splendor of a Burmah  
> The Meteor of Birds,  
> Departing like a Pageant  
> Of Ballads and of Bards—
> 
> I never thought that Jason sought  
> For any Golden Fleece  
> But then I am a rural man  
> With thoughts that make for Peace—
> 
> But if there were a Jason,  
> Tradition bear with me  
> Behold his lost Aggrandizement  
> Upon the Apple Tree—"
> 
> Up next: "She dealt her pretty words like Blades"


	22. She dealt her pretty words like Blades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A honeypot leads to a breakthrough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking a break from the "prosetry" to bring you this short story chapter. We've seen Gaby take care of Illya in a previous chapter, now he gets to return the favor. <3 Thank you for reading!

Though his hands thrum with nerves and his breath hitches in his throat, Illya loves watching her perform. Gaby doesn’t lose herself in characters like Cowboy does; her cover is firmly grounded in the familiar.

Beneath the glamour and the jewels and the feigned accent, he can still find traces of his chop shop girl: in the tilt of her jaw, the break in her voice, any of a thousand things he’s learned to memorize. Maybe it is only because he looks for them, to remind himself that she is truly there.

On nights like these, he wishes he could see a stranger instead.

Illya keeps an especially close eye on the mechanic, unrecognizable in a sweeping dress he doesn’t approve of—not least because it was chosen by the American. It makes his mouth go dry and his pulse stutter every time he sees her. _Precisely_ the point of such an ensemble.

He _hates_ honeypots. Hates sending Gaby in alone while he lurks in the shadows, hates seeing her used as bait, and hates this torturous form of voyeurism. Though she always protests otherwise, he hates how it affects her afterwards too.

Illya watches her engage the mark and curses his own weakness. He loathes the covetous way his eyes take in the silhouette and daring lines of her gown, how his body leans into her non-existent touch. Illya can almost smell her perfume—the one she reserves for such missions, a mechanism to distance herself from her cover.

Her voice gently rasps through his earpiece and he closes his eyes to it, pretends that _he_ is the blessed recipient of her attentions tonight. The illusion breaks when a breathy gasp cuts off the rest of her sentence.

Illya’s eyes snap open and he has to force himself to keep breathing. The mark has drawn her flush against him, his lips hovering by her ear to whisper something. An invitation. He escorts Gaby away, palming possessively over her bared back.

Illya has shadowed her all night, equally mesmerized by this beautifully cruel song and dance. She had dealt her pretty words like blades: a cutting, razor wit, rebukes that stung even as they encouraged. Like hands that slap, but eyes that beckon…

Gaby had offered their mark a challenge, while guaranteeing a prize for his efforts. _Irresistible,_ he thinks. How he loves (and hates) seeing her perform like this.

Illya slips away to follow after them, his head already swimming with the chorus of heavy breaths and unsteady sighs that seem to dog his footsteps. Sound aligns with sight as he rounds the corner, a reflexive flinching for what lies before him: roaming hands and nipping teeth, Gaby’s dress rucked up, her hair disheveled.

The mark has her crowded, pinned against the wall and she is trying to wriggle free. Illya can feel the panic rising within her, a faltering in her cover. The wild flash of her eyes sears him in punishment.

When he looks back on tonight, Illya won’t remember moving—only that when Cowboy arrived, with the files in hand,  the mark was sprawled, unconscious and bleeding, on the floor.

What he _will_ remember is that Gaby was shaking, even in the languid evening heat. He will remember the low whimper that tore from her lips when he bundled her in his coat, covering her ruined dress and the blooming red marks on her skin, but also to give her something familiar to hold onto. To bring her back.

This was the furthest it had ever gone and Illya vows it will never go further. That it will _never_ happen again.

He sits helplessly beside her while Cowboy drives them back to the hotel. Illya watches her anxiously, keeps his shaking hands firmly in his lap. He wants nothing more than to tuck her against his side, stroke her hair, hold her hands in his.

But he won’t unless she asks him.

He _will not_ be another aggressor, another man thinking he can touch her without permission. He will be there for her on her terms only.

Illya walks Gaby to her room, runs her a hot bath, and gives her as much space as she needs. He can hear her cry softly over the running water. It takes every ounce of self-control he has to not destroy everything in front of him.

When Gaby emerges forty minutes later, her eyes are red-rimmed, but steady. She doesn’t question why he’s pulled an armchair beside her bed or why it’s angled towards the door. She merely climbs under the covers and curls wordlessly in on herself.

Illya turns out the light. He watches over her the mechanic as her breathing slowly begins to even out. Her sleep is restless, broken frequently by nightmares. Each time she wakes, he is there to whisper reassurances to her, soothing words in German and Russian, until her eyes close once more.

He maintains his vigil until the sky begins to lighten and a slender hand tugs on his own. He looks down, warmed and startled by the gesture. Gaby’s eyes are heavy with sleep, but clear. Purposeful. She gentles him out of his chair and makes room for him beside her.

Illya hesitates, but joins her. He is careful to maintain a gentleman’s distance… until she nestles against him, a tired smile on her lips as she links her fingers with his.

He catches a whiff of her perfume—her _real_ one—and sighs, breathes a kiss into her crown. She hums and curls in closer to him.

When she closes her eyes this time, Gaby falls into a deep and peaceful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "She dealt her pretty words like Blades —  
> How glittering they shone —  
> And every One unbared a Nerve  
> Or wantoned with a Bone —
> 
> She never deemed — she hurt —  
> That — is not Steel's Affair —  
> A vulgar grimace in the Flesh —  
> How ill the Creatures bear —
> 
> To Ache is human — not polite —  
> The Film upon the eye  
> Mortality's old Custom —  
> Just locking up — to Die."
> 
> Up next: "Tell all the Truth but tell it slant"


	23. Tell all the Truth but tell it slant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The men help Gaby with a cover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the title that started it all. I came across it while doing research for All Roads, which then kicked off my deep dive into Emily Dickinson. Paring 805 poem titles I like to 30 (31, counting the fic title) was a tall order, haha, but it also means, I've got *plenty* more story possibilities when the month ends. :)
> 
> Happy Thanksgiving, friends! I am so grateful for all of YOU. <3

He’s coaching her on her cover—Waverly’s orders. He certainly wouldn’t have chosen this honor for himself. Not with Gaby being aggressively unhelpful and definitely _not_ with the Russian breathing down his neck.

The record hisses out into nothing and the mechanic throws herself into a chair. She huffs, crosses her arms over her chest. Whether out of defense or defiance, Solo can’t tell. “I _know_ what I’m doing,” she snaps.

“Then start acting like it. _From the top.”_

_“No.”_

She’s on her feet and seething, though the effect is considerably undermined by her attire: _loud_ in every sense of the word while whispering all sorts of sinful secrets. The dress—if one could call it that —has raised protests from all sides.

It had taken all of Solo’s charm and more than a little bit of subterfuge to get Gaby, and more accurately, _Peril,_ on board with it.

He had trotted out the scandalous, sequined little garment and pinned his hopes on the Russian. Like clockwork, the man had balked and instantly rejected it on Gaby’s behalf. The stammering excuses he offered during the ensuing interrogation had been entertaining, to say the least.

She didn’t like the outfit any more than Peril did, but she was _not_ about to let him make that decision for her. Solo had merely smiled blandly as he watched them work.

The pair bickered, Solo coaxed and cajoled, and, finally, his partners gave in. The mechanic went to change and Peril gave him a _stern talking to_ about being a gentleman. He had had the last laugh though when a scowling Gaby returned and Peril seemed to have no idea where to look.

He’s not laughing now.

The rehearsal has been an undisputed trainwreck. Gaby _refuses_ to perform her routine in front of Peril and _he_ will not let her do it for the American alone. Solo has thus  tried to circumvent the standoff by having her focus on her partner work.

They have been dancing to the same song for over an hour and she is no better than when she started. He can’t fathom why. Gaby is a skilled dancer and he is an _excellent_ leader.

“I know what I’m doing,” she repeats, insistent. “I managed to fool you both in Rome, didn’t I?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Peril stifle a flinch. Reminders of that betrayal (justified as it may be) are still a sore spot for them.

Solo sighs. “ _Yes,_ but you were playing yourself back then. Harboring a secret identity, certainly, but you were _always_ Gaby Teller.”

He lifts the needle from the turntable. The practice room now overwhelms in silence. “And _Gaby Teller_ has no place in the world of Diane Sherbourne.”

Gaby rolls her eyes, folds her arms just a little tighter. She is as surprised as Solo is when the Russian finally breaks the silence.

“Who you are is your foundation. Your cover must build on that.” He braves a smile at her. “No Diane without Gaby.”

She’s starting to let her guard down. _Good._ Solo picks up on that thread and runs with it. “Now, the best covers always have an edge of authenticity to them. ‘Tell all the truth, but tell it slant,’ as Waverly would say, right?”

He waits for Gaby’s nod.

“Right,” he continues. “So the former first soloist becomes the aspiring showgirl.”

“And the gentleman thief becomes the antiquities dealer,” she adds.

“Precisely. We live in a hall of mirrors, Gaby. A funhouse. You are still the same person as when you entered, but there will be infinities of you—all distorted in some way and _all_ an illusion. The trick is to reflect what your marks are _expecting_ themselves to see.”

The Russian chimes in again. “Being a ballerina is all about grace and control, while showgirl—”

“Is sex appeal and loose morals. Worked that one out for myself, thanks.” She runs a hand through her hair and sighs. Softens. “I can handle this, Illya, but… I’m glad you’ll be close by.”

“We both will,” Solo reminds her. “But do us all a favor and at least _try_ to be convincing?”

Gaby glares at him, but there’s no heat in it. She takes a deep breath and resets her position. “Ready?” she asks.

“After you, my dear.”

A few seconds of static before the music begins again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Tell all the truth but tell it slant —  
> Success in Circuit lies  
> Too bright for our infirm Delight  
> The Truth's superb surprise  
> As Lightning to the Children eased  
> With explanation kind  
> The Truth must dazzle gradually  
> Or every man be blind —"
> 
> Up next: "The Blood is more showy than the Breath"


	24. The Blood is more showy than the Breath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only one unconcerned with Solo's injuries is Illya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did cursory research on collapsed lungs for this chapter. Hopefully nothing sticks out too much, but please let me know if there is so I can make adjustments accordingly.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! :)

Gaby’s fingers drum an anxious tattoo against the steering wheel as the men come into view: Illya half-dragging, half-carrying the American. They fall into her backseat and Gaby floors it, not waiting for the door to close behind them.

“What happened?” she yells.

“Is nothing serious,” Illya assures her. Gaby raises an eyebrow, skeptical. She can almost _feel_ Solo rolling his eyes.

“Easy for you… to say… P-peril. You’re not the one b-bleeding out back here.”

“He’s bleeding out?”

A huff from Illya. “It’s his fault for not listening. He fell down the stairs. Might have a few broken ribs, maybe a collapsed lung.”

Her fingers turn white on the steering wheel. Gaby takes the hairpin curve forcefully and with far more speed than necessary. A volley of curses sound from the back. She hums shortly. “And _that_ isn’t serious?”

“It would only be partial collapse,” he rumbles. “Cowboy is breathing—a little shallow, little fast, but mostly normal—and he is conscious, speaking. He will still be able to flirt with the nurses when medical arrives.”

Gaby nods, humorless, and chances a look in her rearview mirror. A dark stain blooms viciously across Solo’s shirt. She balks. “He’s losing a lot of blood.”

“I’m so glad you n-noticed, Gaby.”

“As long as he is not turning blue—which means he’s not getting enough oxygen—you don’t need to worry. Besides,” Illya adds, smirking, “the blood is more showy than the breath. Looks worse than it really is.”

Solo grits his teeth. “You’re right, Peril. I’m sure this all just me… being… _dramatic.”_

“I wouldn’t put it past you, Cowboy.”

The American’s reply is cut off by a violent, hacking cough. Illya presses his handkerchief to Solo’s mouth, inspects it closely afterwards.

“No blood,” he declares. “See, Gaby? He’s going to be fine.”

The American staggers to a more upright position. He leans heavily against the seat as he turns towards Illya. “You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”

“CIA’s top agent was bested by a _staircase._ Of course, I am enjoying myself.”

Gaby covers her smile and feels her anxiety begin to ease. When she pulls in front of the safehouse a few minutes later, the medics are already waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Blood is more showy than the Breath  
> But cannot dance as well—"
> 
> Up next: "The going from a world we know"


	25. The going from a world we know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team heads to Istanbul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Waverly chapter. Thank you so much for reading. :)
> 
> Only five more days to go!

He leaves them dumbfounded on a balcony in Rome: a new mission, a new codename, the same three agents. A _team,_ legitimized.

It is truly remarkable how they have overcome their differences in the past week. He’s been watching them closely, auditioning them covertly for their place in UNCLE.

Miss Teller has been his ace in the hole—an exemplary agent. He knew from the moment he recruited her that she would be. It is Solo and Kuryakin, then, who have most surprised him.

Waverly is quite pleased to see the men’s humanity placed front and center: they didn’t kill each other, for one, but rather, found common ground in the mission and in the mechanic. He is heartened to see that, even after Gaby’s betrayal, the three seem to have reached an amicable understanding.

The greatest test of all, though, has been the men’s decision to burn the professor’s research. In putting the future of the world over their own national interests, they have proved to him why, indubitably, they are the right fit for UNCLE.

It had been a mutual treason, potentially a _death sentence_ for them, but they were willing to accept the consequences anyway.

 _Yes,_ he thinks, _they would be a true credit to his new organization._

He assesses his team now as they board the plane. There’s no neat pigeonhole for any of them. Brains and brawn and beauty in spades, well-balanced, and well-suited for each other, they are three lone wolves who may finally have found their pack.

Waverly spares Rome one final look as the plane takes off. _The going from a world we know,_ he muses. Istanbul marks the next chapter in foreign relations and espionage: a world where enemies can become allies, even friends—and, with a lazy, knowing glance at Kuryakin and Teller—potentially something more.

 _Remarkable,_ he repeats, as his agents gather around him for their briefing.

_Simply remarkable._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The going from a world we know  
> To one a wonder still  
> Is like the child's adversity  
> Whose vista is a hill,  
> Behind the hill is sorcery  
> And everything unknown,  
> But will the secret compensate  
> For climbing it alone?"
> 
> Up next: "The Soul has Bandaged moments"


	26. The Soul has Bandaged moments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaby explores the psychological toll of her line of work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isn't this such a poignant title? I love it.
> 
> Four more days to go! Thanks so much for reading. :)

It takes three missions for Gaby Teller to learn that it isn’t the physical toll of their work that scares her most. She can fear for her partners’ safety, see them bruised and bloodied with only minimal flinching, but it is nothing compared to when their minds snap or their spirits break.

Solo plunges into melancholy or manic episodes with a single, heady purpose: _forget, forget, forget._ Illya, meanwhile, finds comfort in pain and exertion, in putting the horrors that overwhelm him into a language of busted knuckles and broken furniture.

And Gaby?

She herself flirts madly with Danger, dances that fine line between Recklessness and Control. She chases that sense of power, that tempting of Fate whenever she feels her life is in freefall.

It takes three missions to hit rock bottom.

She learns then that the soul has bandaged moments—fleeting eternities to soothe the endless aching, to halt the onslaught of empathic violence. Those are their moments of reparation:

_Slim hands encircling shaking wrists, foreheads touching, breaths mingling._

_An invitation to go drinking and dancing on the town that doesn’t accept “no” for an answer._

_A fine scotch and a quiet presence that doesn’t ask questions or press for details, but simply reminds him that he is not alone._

It takes three missions before she dares to explore the aftershocks of her line of work, the brokenness inside her. Three missions of struggling to cope on her own.

Three missions before Gaby Teller realizes that she no longer has to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Soul has Bandaged moments -  
> When too appalled to stir -  
> She feels some ghastly Fright come up  
> And stop to look at her -
> 
> Salute her, with long fingers -  
> Caress her freezing hair -  
> Sip, Goblin, from the very lips  
> The Lover - hovered - o'er -  
> Unworthy, that a thought so mean  
> Accost a Theme - so - fair -
> 
> The soul has moments of escape -  
> When bursting all the doors -  
> She dances like a Bomb, abroad,  
> And swings opon the Hours,
> 
> As do the Bee - delirious borne -  
> Long Dungeoned from his Rose -  
> Touch Liberty - then know no more -  
> But Noon, and Paradise 
> 
> The Soul's retaken moments -  
> When, Felon led along,  
> With shackles on the plumed feet,  
> And staples, in the song,
> 
> The Horror welcomes her, again,  
> These, are not brayed of Tongue -"
> 
> Up next: "We dream—it is good we are dreaming"


	27. We dream—it is good we are dreaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaby considers her future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy this one as much as I enjoyed writing it! :)
> 
> Thanks so much for reading. Only three days to go!

She knows that Illya can see right through her.

With every sweep of those ice blue eyes, he can see the ruins of every castle in the air she has ever dared to build, a detailed chronology of tragedy and heartache, her fractured soul that is only now beginning to draw blood.

Gaby has spent a lifetime building a Wall of her own: all barbed wire brusqueness and a tripwire tongue. Impenetrable. _Inescapable._ Protective, but a prison nonetheless. Then the Brit arrived and offered her a job, the American broke her out, and the Russian prodded at her like a newly-found bruise: one she doesn’t remember getting, but which elicits a feeling of tenderness just the same.

UNCLE has found all the cracks in her armor, the weak points in her fortress. She is now scrambling to fortify them.

 _Blame the American_ , she huffs.

Solo is a master of the long game. He knows that in five years, he will slip the CIA’s collar and has begun sketching out his “afterlife” in preparation—his paradise on the other side of this purgatory. The man’s unfaltering _certainty,_ that bright-eyed conviction he imparts to them is catching fire.

Even Illya is starting to indulge.

He coaxes her to consider her future.

 _Their_ future.

Illya holds her bitterness and her brokenness with the grim patience of a fellow survivor: one who has seen the light while _she_ insists on chasing shadows.

The Russian _knows_ , and yet he still encourages her to dream.

“Why should we, Illya?” Her voice is as much a plea as it is a challenge. “There’s no point.”

“It gives us hope,” he replies. “And when we have _hope,_ we have something to fight for.”

Illya cups her cheek, bleeds sincerity into her with his touch. “Before you, I couldn’t imagine a life outside of KGB. _Without_ you, I wouldn’t want one.”

And all at once Gaby finds it almost impossible to breathe. She lifts her eyes to meet his: a calmness and a steadiness to settle the raging storms inside her. She swallows past the rising lump in her throat.

Illya smiles gently as he tucks an errant curl behind her ear. “So we dream,” he tells her. “It is _good_ we are dreaming. _Da?_ ”

 _“Da,”_ she whispers, nodding. _“Ja. Yes.”_

She throws her arms around him and feels a small part of her soul begin to heal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "We dream — it is good we are dreaming —  
> It would hurt us — were we awake —  
> But since it is playing — kill us,  
> And we are playing — shriek —
> 
> What harm? Men die — externally —  
> It is a truth — of Blood —  
> But we — are dying in Drama —  
> And Drama — is never dead —
> 
> Cautious — We jar each other —  
> And either — open the eyes —  
> Lest the Phantasm — prove the mistake —  
> And the livid Surprise
> 
> Cool us to Shafts of Granite —  
> With just an age — and name —  
> And perhaps a phrase in Egyptian —  
> It's prudenter — to dream —"
> 
> Up next: "When we stand on the tops of Things"


	28. When we stand on the tops of Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mission takes an unexpected turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As soon as I saw this title, I knew I *had* to use it. Enjoy! :)
> 
> We're almost at the end, folks! Just two more days to go!

“I think it’s time you learned, _Gabriella_ , that when we stand on the tops of things, there are going to be consequences.”

She glares at Solo, even as her eyes threaten to roll back from the pain. “It was a calculated risk,” she says through gritted teeth.

“It was stupid decision,” Illya snaps. “What were you thinking?”

“I was _thinking_ that you should be thanking me right about now.”

Solo huffs, humorless, from the driver’s seat. He looks sidelong at the Russian beside him: hands clenching and unclenching into fists as he fights to stay calm.

Or, at least, to not any angrier.

“I shot him, didn’t I?” she scoffs.

 _“Yes,_ but—”

“It was the only way to get a clean shot, seeing as neither of _you_ were going to be able to.”

They had been sent by Waverly to infiltrate the THRUSH base and eliminate their leader: Philip Wittke, a man who could make even Uncle Rudi look like a saint. All had been going smoothly until an off-duty guard had spotted them.

It was a fluke, but it had cost them dearly.

The base’s small army had assembled with remarkable speed, while Wittke had been hurriedly escorted to a waiting vehicle. Her partners picked off the oncoming attackers, a relentless onslaught that rendered them unable to get a sightline to the courtyard down below.

Gaby was the only one who could take the shot.

With their window closing, she had to take matters into her own hands. Her small stature worked against her amid the high stone walls of the fortress. What she needed most was _elevation._

Gaby’s eyes alighted on the haphazard structure of old crates and she had made a bolt for it, bullets whizzing by her ear. She put her balletic grace and body control to good use as she swung herself on top of the crates and took to climbing.

She was dizzily high up in her makeshift sniper’s nest, but had an unimpeded view of their mark. As the man stooped to get inside the car, she fired.

He dropped.

So did she.

The recoil from Gaby’s rifle caused her to stumble, her foot punching a hole in the rotting wood before the structure collapsed in on itself.

Quicker than she could blink, Illya’s hands had pulled her against him, but not before her ankle had twisted with a sickening _crack._

He had cradled her to his chest while Solo sprinted to commandeer Wittke’s car. He grumbled furiously at her in between the mutual hail of bullets. Now, safely in the backseat of their getaway vehicle, the adrenaline is throbbing with anger and relief.

“You could have been _killed_ ,” he scolds her. “Not by an enemy, but by your own recklessness. Your ankle, the way we had to escape, _all of this_ , was preventable.”

“I did what needed to be done for the mission,” she hisses as another bright stab of pain grips the edges of her consciousness.

Illya shouts, voice hoarse, thick with emotion. _“You are more important than the mission!”_ He can hardly form a fist with how badly his fingers are shaking. “If we didn’t shoot Wittke at the base, we could have tailed him. Found another opportunity. And if we _failed_ , Waverly would understand, make new arrangements. He is not like KGB.”

The Russian takes a deep breath, sighs. “Cowboy and I protect you and protect each other, like you do for us. You are capable agent. Don’t make us have to protect you from yourself.”

“Nice speech,” she says. The bite in her voice is almost convincing. “I’ll have to remember it the next time _you_ go off-book. Same for you, Solo.”

"I promise I'll be on my best behavior," the American says, grinning.

Illya hums shortly. “Of course.”

His eyes are laced with worry, but there’s an undeniable warmth in them when he turns to look back at her. “And _thank you,_ Gaby. For completing our mission.”

Her lips quirk into a small smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "When we stand on the tops of Things—  
> And like the Trees, look down—  
> The smoke all cleared away from it—  
> And mirrors on the scene—
> 
> Just laying light—no soul will wink  
> Except it have the flaw—  
> The Sound ones, like the Hills—shall stand—  
> No lightning, scares away—
> 
> The Perfect, nowhere be afraid—  
> They bear their dauntless Heads,  
> Where others, dare not go at Noon,  
> Protected by their deeds—
> 
> The Stars dare shine occasionally  
> Upon a spotted World—  
> And Suns, go surer, for their Proof,  
> As if an axle, held –"
> 
> Up next: "You love me—you are sure"


	29. You love me—you are sure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn't need to hear him say it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The penultimate chapter: pure Gallya sweetness. <3 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Enjoy. Comments are always appreciated. :)

“You love me,” he repeats, softly, slowly. “You are sure.”

It isn’t a question so much as a prayer—tentatively offered, underscored by a quiet yearning. A plea for mercy. A wish he’s dared to see come true.

His eyes rove over her face, searching for the evidence of his unworthiness. _He should know by now,_ she thinks, a little sadly, _that there are none._

Illya’s fingers flex hesitantly, as if unsure whether it’s okay to touch her… even after everything she has just revealed to him.

Gaby gently tugs on his wrist and feels his eyes snap immediately to it. They widen, startled and grateful, as she presses her lips to his palm. He exhales heavily as she places his hand against her cheek and closes her eyes to it.

“Gaby,” he prompts her. A strained whisper that makes her eyes flutter open. She smiles up at him, leans further into his touch.

 _“Yes,”_ she says, firmly. “I am sure.”

Her hands smooth up Illya’s chest and lace lazily behind his neck, breath catching as his free hand settles on the small of her back. His eyes are dazed, darkening, but she meets them steadily.

He swallows thickly. “Gaby, I lo—”

She pulls Illya’s lips to hers before he can finish the rest.

Warmth, bright and wild, and a thrill of something clever and possessive sings through her veins. Illya begins to return her kisses in earnest and she is breathless, giddy, and so inexplicably at _peace._

They are two souls from broken homes, ascetic lifestyles, imposed and enforced. The world around them constantly demanding, _determining_ who or what they are allowed to have.

But Gaby has had enough of rationing her desires. She will choose to indulge, choose to surrender, choose to _love_ the KGB’s top agent.

She doesn’t need to hear him say he loves her.

Not when every touch, every look, every _word_ is imbued with it. Gaby breaks the kiss, admires the black pearl ring on her finger as she strokes his cheek.

No, she doesn’t need to hear him say it.

_She knows._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You love me—you are sure—  
> I shall not fear mistake—  
> I shall not cheated wake—  
> Some grinning morn—  
> To find the Sunrise left—  
> And Orchards—unbereft—  
> And Dollie—gone!
> 
> I need not start—you're sure—  
> That night will never be—  
> When frightened—home to Thee I run—  
> To find the windows dark—  
> And no more Dollie—mark—  
> Quite none?
> 
> Be sure you're sure—you know—  
> I'll bear it better now—  
> If you'll just tell me so—  
> Than when—a little dull Balm grown—  
> Over this pain of mine—  
> You sting—again!" 
> 
> Up next: "You said that I was Great—one Day"


	30. You said that I "was Great"—one Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya gets a second chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter! We did it! :)
> 
> Thank you all SO much for sticking with me these past 30 days. Your support and interest in my writing means the absolute world to me. More content will be coming soon... I promise!
> 
> Comments, as always, are incredibly appreciated. I would LOVE to hear if you had a favorite chapter. :)
> 
> Thank you again! Much, much love to all of you! <3

“You said that I was great,” he chokes out. “One day, I hope to be _good._ A good man to deserve this.”

He is standing in the middle of Waverly’s office, towering over his seated teammates and employer. Illya’s hands thrum with this ridiculous and utterly _mortifying_ display of emotion. It’s not anger— _that_ he knows how to deal with—but something else entirely.

Waverly had summoned them to discuss their new contracts with UNCLE. They would all three be staying, he revealed, much to the relief that none of them would ever admit to feeling. If not permanently, then at least long into the foreseeable future.

 _Got the United Nations involved,_ Waverly told them, _and made each of you into a household name in their respective circles. Your agencies have no choice_ but _to keep you here as a symbol of their good faith._

Illya Kuryakin now has a redeemed name and a second chance.

He had been subsumed into UNCLE with the expectation that this was a strictly _temporary_ arrangement. The longer he worked alongside Waverly and his partners, however, the greater the panic he felt about returning full-time to the KGB.

But now, _now_ , he has been gifted with a fresh start. A second chance to live up to the Englishman’s humane, but exacting standards and to _stay_. Stay here with Gaby and Cowboy—all because Waverly had put in a few good words on their behalves.

 _An esteemed agent,_ he’d called him. _A great man and a true credit to his organization._ Anyone _should be_ proud _to have someone of Mr. Kuryakin’s caliber working to keep them safe._

A lump had risen unbidden in Illya’s throat and— _bozhe moi —_ were those _tears_ in his eyes? He clamped down hard on his jaw, holding himself violently still while the unfamiliar praise washed over him.

Illya had tuned out the rest of the conversation, focusing solely on getting himself back under control.

It hadn’t worked.

He had leapt to his feet and started babbling, not caring that he had interrupted his superior mid-sentence or that his partners were staring at him in undisguised shock.

This strange outburst concluded, he clears his throat, feeling the embarrassment burning up his skin. He can almost _hear_ a thousand Red Peril jokes being lobbied at him.

Illya trains his gaze on the floor, his breathing ragged and his heart thundering. He is  beginning to mumble out an apology when two slim hands encircle his wrists. He lifts his eyes to meet Gaby’s—an infinite darkness that scorches and soothes in equal measure.

“You _are_ a good man, Illya,” she tells him, her hands slipping into his own. “And _you_ are enough.”

A strangled sort of sound escapes him then, and, for once, he is grateful for Cowboy’s presence. If he weren’t there, Illya might start weeping openly. As it is, though, he squeezes Gaby’s hands gently and extricates himself from her grip.

He wants to pull her close instead, wrap his arms around her, hold and be held. But he clings to that last semblance of decorum like a lifeline. He _has_ to.

A hand claps firmly on his shoulder.

“Easy, Peril,” Solo says, with only a token of a smirk. “Or else you’re going to get me started too.”

The American breezes past him, his default smugness much more subdued. Gaby takes his hand again and Illya can see the two spots of color high on her cheeks.

She stares resolutely ahead, daring anyone to say anything. Waverly inclines his head with a wry, little smile—deference, perhaps, or maybe even _approval—_ and merely hands each of them a steaming cup of tea.

“I’d like to propose a toast,” she declares, moving to stand before them. The loss of her touch is devastating, but Illya refrains from reaching out for her. He knows that if it were just the three of them here, Gaby would be standing on the low coffee table by now.

The thought warms him more than the scalding porcelain in his hands. He finds himself more than a little disappointed that she has chosen to respect their boss’ furniture.

The mechanic raises her teacup and looks straight at him, a shadow of a grin on her face. “To good men,” she states.

“And terrible spies,” Solo adds as he joins her. Illya huffs out a laugh despite himself as Waverly raises his cup next.

“A world worth saving.”

Three expectant sets of eyes pin him like spotlights. He swallows thickly, nodding at nothing as he composes himself. Illya’s hands shake, but his voice is steady.

“And second chances.”

They drink their tea in companionable silence: commemorating the end of an era and celebrating the first day of their new lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine that they all had a group hug at the end... and then promptly agreed to never talk about it again. :)
> 
> "You said that I “was Great”—one Day—  
> Then “Great” it be—if that please Thee—  
> Or Small—or any size at all—  
> Nay—I’m the size suit Thee—
> 
> Tall—like the Stag—would that?  
> Or lower—like the Wren—  
> Or other heights of Other Ones  
> I’ve seen?
> 
> Tell which—it’s dull to guess—  
> And I must be Rhinoceros  
> Or Mouse—  
> At once—for Thee—
> 
> So say—if Queen it be—  
> Or Page—please Thee—  
> I’m that—or nought—  
> Or other thing—if other thing there be—  
> With just this Stipulus—  
> I suit Thee—"

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [London](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12945405) by [rainbowjaeger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbowjaeger/pseuds/rainbowjaeger)




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